Lunch

This is what I want you to imagine. Not that it will happen – I understand your desire to move slowly. But I’d like you to imagine that it could, what it might be like if it did.

Imagine that, when we meet for lunch, you’re dressed as I request – in a short, cotton dress, with black boyshorts and a black bra. Imagine that, as we sit across from each other in a booth, I ask you to slide a hand under the table, under your dress, under your panties, and into your cunt. Imagine that I ask you to produce your finger for me, so I can taste and smell your pussy. At the table. With my lunch.

And imagine that I send you off to the bathroom, to make yourself come. Imagine that I ask you to record the sound of your orgasm on your phone for me. And to come back to the table, your panties in your hand, to give to me.

Imagine that as we sit there, I plug my headphones into your phone and listen to your orgasm while you watch me. I’ll be stroking my cock, hard, under my pants. The waitstaff won’t notice. The other patrons won’t notice. But you will. Your eyes will be locked on my eyes, or maybe on the obstructed sightline between your eyes and my cock.